


Writer's Dilemma

by cosmicfrownies



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Creepy, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Incoherency, Masturbation, Mild Gore, Other, POV First Person, Psychological Horror, improper use of office supplies, maybe? - Freeform, narrator's gender and sex is not specified, pscyhological
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:01:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25266535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicfrownies/pseuds/cosmicfrownies
Summary: You sit at your desk, uninspired, tired, hazy. No words come to mind. Time stretches on in a strange manner. Your mind wanders.
Kudos: 5





	Writer's Dilemma

**Author's Note:**

> I used to write a lot of psychological stuff and lately I've just been writing more horny shit, so my brain finally thought "why not make something depraved, cursed, psychological, horny, whatever?" So yeah, this is weird, but it's supposed to be. It's more psychological than anything. Read at your own risk, I guess. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

The rickety mahogany chair creaked beneath my weight as I shifted in my seat. How long had I been sitting there anyway? I wasn’t sure. I bored my gaze into the blank white sheet of paper in front of me, a black ballpoint pen next to it. They lay on the deep, dark wooden desk in front of me, worn from years of use. Or at least I think it’s been used for years… Holes bitten into it by termites.

The room was dark, dank, musty. Mildew probably coated the walls, each crevice infested with disease and bugs. I could move if I wanted to, I wasn’t tied, wasn’t bound, yet I sat in the old, wooden chair. My vision was hazy, but at least I could see the pen and paper. Was I supposed to write something? Nothing came to mind. My grip on the chair tightened. 

The air within the room squeezed at my lungs, practically suffocating. I coughed and hacked. The miasma dwindled down a bit. I could breathe again. This wasn’t the first time that had happened. I should write… right? I looked at the pen, it lay still about an inch away from the pure white paper. I couldn’t grab the pen though, couldn’t will my arms to move. How long had this happened?

Each moment spurred on further than the last, time seemed infinite, stretched thin into a thread that sprawled across the universe, reaching each and every edge. The universe was boundless, ever-expanding, though. I focused back on the paper, wondering how it would feel, all I had felt was the wooden chair and the vague feeling of my own skin against itself. Sometimes I swore I could feel the muscle stretching ever so slightly against my bones, they were probably brittle by now, the blood flowing through my veins, my pulse in a slow, constant rhythm, beating softly against my chest. I was alive. At least it seemed so. Maybe, I too, was decaying. Decaying like the chair, the table, the walls, whatever else was in this room. Was I too tainted by such filth? Exposed to mildew and mold. Parasites and bugs. Who knows. Would my remains be found, unrecognizable, eaten by insects and acid, organs half-eaten and bared for the voyeuristic, twisted souls to see? I couldn’t even remember what I looked like. My skin was pale, malnourished, sure. 

The paper was pale, pure white, wondrous. My grip on the seat of the chair loosened. My breath shuddered as my shaky hands reached towards the paper. I stroked it lightly. Oh, how nice it felt. The smooth, clean, natural texture of paper against my dry, disgusting skin. My skin that would be left to rot, left with a pure piece of paper and pen. Items showing my insignificance in this vast universe. No words left behind, just a mess of putrefaction and maggots. 

My hand hovered over the pen. How would it feel? I grabbed the pen, relishing in the contact of the filthy, unnatural, plastic object. My fingertips danced across the rubber grip on the pen. What a unique feeling. And what a beautiful unison between the pen and paper would be. The pen’s ink tainting the paper’s natural beauty. The sick mixture of nature and processed fossil fuels, the old corpses of dinosaurs made into an oil, then made into a synthetic material. Disgusting. But oh so nice to feel. I stroked the paper again. My thighs clenched together. My vision became more hazy, the objects before me vague forms of black and white. 

I brought the pen to my face, examining it closely. My tongue darted out, tracing the object’s shape. I stuck it in my mouth, sucking on the plastic object. A moan escaped my throat. Beads of sweat began to form on my forehead. My tongue wrapped around the pen, wanton moans filling the stagnant air. I looked at the sheet of paper with lidded eyes. Oh, how I’d love to taint it. My tongue rolled against the pen once more as I took the foreign object out of my mouth. I grabbed the paper, a string of drool running down my chin. Saliva, tainted by plastic, running across my skin, my sick, disgusting skin. My natural skin, tainted by synthetic plastic. I rubbed the paper against my face, relishing in the smooth contact. The paper gently sliding across my cheeks. The thought alone was arousing, but the action itself was even more so. 

I set the paper down and removed my clothing. I sat in the chair completely bare, exposed to the pen and paper, burning the sight of my naked body into their vision. I carefully folded the paper, I scraped it against my skin, drawing blood. Crimson fluid ran down my fingertip, the wound burning. Bittersweet. I sucked my finger clean, licking the metallic-tasting liquid off, savoring it. The edge of the paper was now red. No longer was it pure white, no longer was it innocent and natural. It was tainted by my filthy bodily fluids. Tainted by me. I took the paper and stroked my genitals with it. The sensation of paper against such sensitive regions was much different than the hand I vaguely remembered. My other hand found its way to the pen, the filthy, unnatural object. It was still coated in saliva from before. 

I slowly entered the object inside of me, hissing at the thought of the filth entering my already, filthy body. The pen was already tainted, but it was even worse now. The pen was thin, but there was a small stretch nevertheless. My body would handle it. I didn’t deserve the treatment from the paper. The paper who softly stroked me, rubbed me,  _ pleasured _ me. My eyes grew heavy. I leaned my head back. Heat pooled in my abdomen. I hadn’t had this feeling in a while, but I knew it well. Nights alone, away from the damned words I spat out day after day, but this was different. I had no motivation. No words. Just a blank sheet of paper and an unused pen. I panted as the pen’s pace picked up. It hit that particularly sensitive spot. 

The paper was doing great, slowly rubbing and stroking, doing exactly what I liked. My hands were mere puppets to these objects. These objects serving me, a lowly human, practically a corpse. My head spun. My finger had kept bleeding. Such a small amount of blood loss. Such a pathetic excuse for a living being. 

I moaned. I felt my climax coming soon. My legs couldn’t control themselves, they shook. I wanted to grip onto the chair, but my hands were busy helping the pen and paper give me pleasure. Wanton pants, sighs, and moans fluttered through the air, a mantra, a mantra telling me how pathetic I was. It felt good though. So good. Pathetic, lowly scum, pleasured by two vastly different objects, undeserving either way. I writhed beneath the paper as its strokes sped up. The pen slammed in and out of me now, abusing my insides. My head was thrown back. I couldn’t control myself. 

My vision turned white and I saw stars, chanting ‘Paper! Pen!’ as my release came. Their movements slowly died down, coming to a stop as I tried to come down from my high, recovering from the exertion. The pen and paper fell to the floor. Blood from my fingertip had formed a small pool on the ground, the paper had fell into it, absorbing the crimson liquid. The paper was completely tainted by me, my blood, my sex, my saliva, my tears. My release had meant nothing. 

The paper would have been better off with the momentous union of paper and pen, ink spreading slowly across it. Staining it. Now it was stained by my various fluids. The pen lay on the floor, disgusting. It had been inside of me, within my filthy body, bringing me pleasure either way. 

I stood up, the ground swaying, my vision blurry, head spinning. I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it.  **_Couldn’t do it_ ** **.** I had to leave. I couldn’t repent for my sins here, bleeding out and tainting the room, the chair, the table, the paper, the pen. I’d bleed out, tainting the earth, worsening it more than it already was by ridding myself of my pathetic existence. 

Light flooded into the room. My eyes widened. Corpses. Bones. Organs. Blood. Death and decay filled the room. The musty, rotten scent filling my nose, the miasma choking the air out of my lungs once more. The lives of many other pathetic souls. Worthless lives who couldn’t write a mere word on the pure paper. Those who tainted the earth with their pitiful existences. Those who then lay on the ground to rot, maggots crawling through their bodies, feasting on their organs. Skeletons lay on the ground, the muscle, fat, skin, organs, decomposed and eaten. Mold, mildew, death, decay, disgusting. The room was falling apart, decomposing itself. How had I never noticed? Had there been the final breaths of those before me? Had I missed those? Had they been dead before I came? Surely this wasn’t the only life I knew… But I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay. I needed to go. 

Thoughts whirled through my brain, but I could only focus on leaving. I found my way to the door, my hand relishing in the cool, metallic doorknob. Oh, how I wished to stay and get to know it better. But I couldn’t. I had to go. I turned the doorknob and stepped out. It was bright. Much brighter than the dark, musty room. The sun was high in the sky. The sky was blue. It was beautiful. But I couldn’t enjoy it. 

I fell to the ground, laying in the dirt beneath me. My thoughts stilled and I realized… I could have written… I could have written… about  _ them _ . As my eyelids began to close, the vision of a person filled my mind, somebody so familiar and wonderful. How could I have forgotten? But… it was too late. As I drifted away, so did the vision of the person, the angel. My blood seeped into the ground beneath me, but I wasn’t there to reprimand myself, to pity myself for tainting the earth. The ground  _ they _ walked on. I was gone. And they were still there. Standing above me, salty tears seeping into the earth.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this depravity! I want to make something even worse without the stereotypical non-con/incest because I find those discomforting, but drab, and obviously wrong... I want to write things that aren't inherently wrong, but make people uncomfortable nevertheless, y'know? Lmao.


End file.
